


Spoils of war

by gonattsaga



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Arch nemesis, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, It's war, M/M, Obsession, Onesided Sherlock/Jim, Onesided Sherlock/John, The new Game, Unrequited Love, Unrequited Lust, between Sebastian Moran/Jim Moriarty, eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-11
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-17 09:00:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3523364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gonattsaga/pseuds/gonattsaga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now they’ve come full circle. The roof was just the intermission. This is where they first met, properly, officially, eye to eye as equals, and this is where they'll end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sherlock and Jim

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a oneshot showdown between the two consultants... But then it began to branch out a little. So in chapters to come Sherlock and Moriarty will be at war with each other again, and this time there is leverage: the sniper and the doctor. 
> 
> The POV will vary between Sherlock and Jim, but probably not within the same chapter. 
> 
> Oh and I should warn you, Moriarty comes off a little OOC here. Possibly. But it is subjective from Sherlock's POV so...

It’s nearing midnight, but in here time doesn’t matter. No windows. Just the eerie glow from the pool lights bouncing off the walls and making them shimmer like an eighties love song music video; the whole scene screams of déjà vu and its almost poetic. _Now_ they’ve come full circle. The roof was just the intermission. This is where they first met, properly, officially, eye to eye as equals, and this is where they'll end.

How that end is to come about exactly, and if it’s just the game that will end with one of them losing and the other walking away the winner, or if it’s both of their lives that will end, as foreshadowed by the ruse on the roof, Sherlock isn’t sure. And he doesn’t think Moriarty knows for sure yet either.

And in a way, the detective supposes, that’s what makes this whole thing _so thrilling._ That’s what makes _Moriarty_ so thrilling. 

There’s an awkwardness in the air, despite the crackling of tension and excitement, neither knowing who should make the first move. Like the end of a first date, with the suggestion of a kiss hanging in the space between them, _which in a way it is, the end of a first date._

Moriarty’s eyes seem nearly black in the dim, cold light and they gleam in that crazed way they did on the roof, but less happy somehow.

 _Because he had been_ , Sherlock thinks. _On the roof_ , when it became clear to them both that the game was still very much on, Moriarty had been happy; he’d been happy and relieved and grateful, and he’d nearly wept from the intensity of those feelings. Now, he’s anything but. It’s hard to tell what he is feeling, if it’s rage or hate or excitement or bitterness, or a mix of them all, but whatever it is it is making him thrum with energy and it is all focused on _Sherlock_.

The detective feels a jolt of excitement. Whatever happens here tonight, he knows the circumstances will be _spectacular_ and he honestly doesn’t care if he comes out of it alive or not. And he knows Moriarty doesn’t care. The man clearly has a death wish. Sherlock wonders briefly if he’ll kill himself anyway if he wins the game and Sherlock dies. Then he wonders why it would matter to him either way, and why he seems to feels a tinge of hope that he will. As if they were star-crossed lovers or something, caught up in a morbid dance of destruction and heading towards a, quite predictable but nonetheless tempting, suicide pact.

For a moment, Sherlock remember John and feels a twinge of guilt. He’s already put his friend through this once before, all his friends. He actually knows what his death will do to them, because he’s done it to them once before. That should be enough of an incentive to stay alive tonight, he figures. And maybe it is. _Maybe_.

“So what now?” he speaks up finally, his voice seemingly booming in the quiet room. “How is this final act supposed to go? This is _your_ fairy tale after all, _your_ game… I’m sure you’ve got something planned… or are we just to come together like two random elements thrown into an experiment and see what happens, James?”

The other man flinches slightly, barely noticeable at all, except Sherlock notices _everything_ and it takes him by surprise, the blatant display of emotion, _well blatant to Sherlock, and to Moriarty himself, so yes_ , and gives him pause. Moriarty’s nostrils flare slightly, _alarm, he must have realised his mistake_ , Sherlock thinks and stomps down the impulse to _smirk_.

“Oh, I’m sorry”, he says smoothly. “I thought you _preferred James_ …  oh, wait, that’s not true anymore, is it? Well, not quite… there’s only one person, besides possibly your parents—“

He pauses and lets his gaze flit over the criminal, trying to pick up on any _tells_ , but there’s nothing, no reaction at all.

“—Hm.”, Sherlock continues. “Well, _one person_ at least, who calls you by that name, only one who has, in recent times, been perceptive enough to _know_ that you prefer it and _thoughtful enough_ to use it, and now… you don’t want anyone else to use it which is why you go by Jim in private, or whilst in disguise, except for the whole Richard Brook thing obviously…”

Sherlock trails off, he’s getting off track. Moriarty is watching him closely, there’s still a hint of alarm in his eyes, but he’s also curious, it seems. Reluctantly interested, _and isn’t that always the case?_

“So what makes you think I prefer James in the first place? Maybe I don’t like anyone to call me that”, the other man points out, voice carefully neutral.

“You introduced yourself as James Moriarty when we first met”, Sherlock reminds him. “But since then you’ve been very careful to call yourself Jim instead. And publicly, and I guess professionally, you go by Moriarty of course.”

“Right, well, maybe I just don’t think about it then, _maybe I prefer Jim_ but I wanted to introduce myself _formally_.”

Sherlock takes a moment to digest the words and licks his lips. _Oh this is fun_ , he thinks.

“No… that could very well be it, it sounds very plausible”, he admits. “But then there’s the telling evidence of _this whole conversation_ …”

Moriarty actually glares at him then. And Sherlock _actually smirks_.

“Yeah, _James_ …” he continues thoughtfully. “That’s _his_ name for you…”

There’s a subtle twitch just below Moriarty’s right eye, “ _His_?”

“Mm”, Sherlock acknowledges. “I think… yes, definitely another man. Your _right hand man_ , maybe?”

He’s well aware of the mocking tone in his voice and worries for a moment that Moriarty will detect the hint of, _what? jealousy?_

He tracks the subtle tells all over Moriarty’s face and body, the gentle movement of his Adam’s apple as he swallows, the slight twitch in his left pinky, and feels his own smirk tremble.

“Is he listening in?”

Moriarty is a statue suddenly, an unflinching, neutral statue and not giving _anything away._ Sherlock takes it as a _yes_. 

“Will he mind?” he presses on, pushes, pushes, all those little buttons, to think he’d find them so easily, so soon.

“Will he mind _what_?”

“This. _You and me._ What we might do…”

Moriarty doesn’t reply, so Sherlock takes a couple of steps closer to him and catches the quick glance up at the bleachers, _must be where he is, sniper rifle propped up on the back of a seat_ , and he smiles a little at Moriarty, just to _unnerve him_.

“Does it bother you that he has to watch?” Sherlock asks. “Did you consider asking someone else to do this one, your _third_ or _fourth_ in command perhaps? Or _anyone_ , other than the one person you care about—“

“Don’t be stupid”, Moriarty growls. “Sebastian isn’t… I don’t have _feelings for Moran_. He’s the best sniper I’ve ever met, and a _model_ employee… but he’s _ordinary_.”

There’s a hint of tension around the criminal’s eyes, as if he’s forcing himself to _not_ wince at his own words and give anything away, _and thus giving everything away; lie lie lie_

“Amazing”, Sherlock murmurs, feeling a mix of astonishment and curiosity, and… _something else_ that he doesn’t recognise completely; a _heavier_ feeling that isn’t unfamiliar to him exactly, but uncomfortable enough that’s he’s deleted any memories that’s evoked it in the past. If he was to describe it now he’d say it was a _pinching_ sort of sensation, _disappointment maybe? Hurt? No,_ Sherlock decides. _That’s not at all logical._

Moriarty squints his eyes suspiciously at the half-whispered response, uncertainty and threat radiating off him from impossibly dark eyes in equal measures. He doesn’t ask the detective to clarify or even elaborate, doesn’t utter so much as a _What_ , but skips immediately to “Careful…”

The deep and composed rumble of his voice and the perfectly enunciated consonants are pure darkness and danger and just hearing it makes a detailed collage of _screaming lungs, gushing blood, white hot searing pain_ flash to the forefront of Sherlock’s mind and it’s _exhilarating_ , an involuntary shiver runs through him and, pulse picking up perceptibly, he  _still pushes_ , just a little bit more, “You _do_ think Moran is ordinary”, he acknowledges. “But at the same time, he isn’t ordinary _to you—_ ”

“Don’t”, Moriarty bites out furiously, eyes flashing.

“And even _you_ don’t understand how that can be…”

Sherlock is almost expecting a _blood curdling scream_ , remembers _That's what people do!_ but Moriarty just presses his lips together again, steeling his face into a stony mask, _giving nothing away_ , but then he doesn’t have to, because Sherlock has already seen all that he needs to make his deductions. The puzzle has been put together. And incidentally, that _pinching_ feeling, that Sherlock has now located in the general area between his chest and belly, _his core_ , it’s back and even stronger than before, tighter, heavier.

Moriarty is eyeing him warily now, possibly making his own deductions.

“This doesn’t have to change anything”, he says. _You have Watson, I have Sebastian_ , goes unsaid but Sherlock gets it and lets it simmer, licks his lips, noting absent-mindedly how Moriarty’s gaze drops down briefly, and then he gives an imperceptible nod, _acknowledging_ what the criminal has said, but not necessarily agreeing to anything, _at least not yet_.

Moriarty seems to hesitate, then he glances down at the tiles in front of him and moves his left hand discretely, just the two fingers twitching, as if swatting some invisible insect away from him half-heartedly. _It’s a message. It’s a code_.

When he’s got the man’s full attention again, Sherlock asks “Are we alone at last?”

Moriarty frowns a little, but doesn’t say anything. Somewhere there’s the soft _click_ of a door shutting, but Sherlock still presses, “Think he really left?”

“Of course he did”, the other man says, sounding annoyed as if the mere suggestion that his second in command would disregard him was an insult.

“Never disobeys your orders?” Sherlock ventures. “Always the loyal little lap dog?”

Moriarty must have got fed up with Sherlock taunting him, or he’s just clever enough to know just how to get him to stop, because he looks away, _bored_ , and Sherlock immediately feels a twinge… _of something_ , something unpleasant, _irritation most likely_ , or worry, panic, alarm, but then he sighs and Sherlock releases a breath he wasn’t even aware of holding.

“You’re still the one, Sherlock”, Moriarty says and it sounds soothing. “The one who’s come the closest. You’re my equal, my… other half, maybe. In a way.”

“That’s very romantic”, Sherlock says and for the first time tonight he isn’t taunting or mocking _at all_ , just observational.

“No”, Moriarty says immediately, firmly. “Not romantic, Sherlock, that’s not what we’re about. What we have is so much _more_ than romance, so much more _unique_ , what the ordinary people could never have or even _comprehend_ …”

“And how is that then, _James_?”

Moriarty’s eyes flash dangerously at him, _Watch it_ , but doesn’t voice any warning or even comment on the use of his name. He licks his lips, gaze flickering as if _trying to remember_ , or _trying to find the right words_ , and it’s such an unexpected sight, so foreign, so _human_ , that it makes Sherlock’s stomach flutter watching his face as it happens.

“Sebastian”, Moriarty starts and winces slightly at the softness in his own tone. “He’s tough. Hardened, you know. He’s been through things. So many things, more than myself even, but then he is older than me and he’s been at war, so that makes sense… but he’s also… _broken_ ”, fittingly, Moriarty’s voice breaks a little on the last word, but both pretend not to have noticed. “ _Now_ I don’t know that anything could get to him, no-one can get close enough, but _before_ … what damage has been done in the past is irreparable, you see… and when we’re alone just the two of us and can afford to let our guards down”, he rushes through that, _doesn’t want to linger on_ himself _letting down his guard ever_ , Sherlock figures. “He’s let me see some of it, and I…”

Sherlock waits for a moment patiently, _well politely_ , but when the other man continues to hesitate, he clears his throat and gives him an encouraging look, at least he meant for it to be encouraging, but Moriarty throws him a weird one in response, so he might not have nailed the expression. The criminal does start talking again though, so at least it worked.

“I know there’s nothing I can do”, he says.

 _Yet you still want to_ , Sherlock fills in the blank. _And he finds that perplexing._ Sherlock finds it perplexing himself as it happens, but for some reason it’s fascinating that the criminal does. But then again, Sherlock thinks everything about the criminal is fascinating most of the time.

“Sebastian”, Moriarty starts again, then licks his lips as though wanting to taste the sentiment there. “Irrationally, I want to put him back together… somehow… but _you_ , Sherlock, I want to _take you apart_.”

“Of course you do”, Sherlock says, _I don’t need putting together for one thing, but first and foremost I am an enigma that you want to get inside of, a labyrinth that you want to learn to navigate_ … “I entrance you because you can’t really figure me out, so you want to break into my mind and _learn me_ , as it were…”

Moriarty’s lips actually twitch a little and there’s a glint in his eyes that, if he didn’t know better Sherlock would say was _regret_.

“No, darling”, the criminal drawls. “I just want to _break you_.”


	2. Jim and Sebastian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim swallows down the impulse to snap at the man walking at his side, because another part of him, although not bigger exactly but definitely stronger, especially at times like this, makes a wave of unease wash over him, a rush of guilt and anxiety and whatever else you’re supposed to feel when you’d just been listening to someone reduce your feelings for your… second in command to something so mechanical and superficial, and you realised you couldn’t find the words to correct them even if you wanted to.

Sebastian emerges from the darkness of the building’s shadow and silently sidles up to him. Jim can _feel_ his tension. It’s so potent it’s seeping into his own body and part of him feels _really fucking irritated_ because the other man is dumping all that negative energy on him and because

 

_Always the loyal little lap dog_

_I don’t have feelings for Sebastian_

_He’s ordinary_

_I want to put him back together_

_He’s not ordinary_ to you

 

Jim swallows down the impulse to snap at the man walking at his side, because _another part_ of him, although not _bigger_ exactly but definitely _stronger_ , especially at times like this, makes a wave of unease wash over him, a rush of guilt and anxiety and whatever else you’re supposed to feel when you’d just been listening to someone reduce your feelings for your… _second in command_ to something so mechanical and superficial, and you realised you couldn’t find the words to correct them even if you wanted to. _Sick_ , he decides. He feels sick. Like he’s coming down from a high. _So that seems appropriate._

Sebastian doesn’t say anything. He barely _ever_ says anything, and usually Jim considers that one of his better qualities. But now he just wants to grab him by the shoulders and shake the words out of him, because he’s _thinking_ so loudly it’s deafening anyway. 

“So what now, Boss?” the sniper says finally, and his voice is more neutral than Jim has ever heard it before. 

“Nothing”, he says and it comes out a little harsh but Sebastian doesn’t react at all, _was probably expecting it._ “The game is still on…”

“Right”, Sebastian says. “More games…”

“Yes”, Jim says, _but no_ , he thinks. _Not a game anymore._

Sebastian slows down his pace and Jim turns to face him. His face is unreadable, _has it always been this difficult to read him?_ but some of the tension has drained away from his shoulders. 

“You ready to head home then, Boss?”

With a jolt, Jim realises they’ve been walking around aimlessly and he flushes a little with embarrassment, but nods. Sebastian nods too, and puts a gentle hand on Jim’s shoulder briefly and steers him in the direction of

 _His car_ , Jim realises. 

 _We’ve been walking in a circle._ Sebastian _has been walking_ me _around in a circle._

He knows he should feel affronted, manipulated, patronised, but he just feels a little… fond. Sebastian lets his hand drop away from his shoulder again as soon as they’re across the street, and holds the passenger side door open for him. 

They drive in silence. Jim glances at the other man’s profile, _he’s got a very distinct profile, quite nice too, is he annoyed with me? His jaw seems clenched, maybe it’s always like that, he_ has _got a very distinct profile_

“Boss?”

Jim is jerked from his line of thoughts and blinks owlishly at the other man, then quickly wrenches his gaze away and stares out the windscreen at the road ahead instead. He doesn’t respond, and Sebastian doesn’t address him again. 

For a moment Jim wonders if _he_ should say something to _Sebastian_ , something about what had been said between himself and Sherlock, maybe. He thinks about Sebastian’s jaw and frowns to himself, _how come the ordinaries can be so simple and easily manipulated and still so bloody difficult to deal with sometimes?_

They stop driving suddenly and Jim realises they’ve reached his house already. Sebastian doesn’t kill the engine, and he’s still staring straight ahead. _Should definitely say something to him_ , Jim thinks. But he can’t think of what, not like this, on the spot, with all this pressure… it’s too cramped in the car, and too cold… He glances at Sebastian and tries to get a sense of the man’s mood, but he’s a closed book as always. Jim feels more and more strongly about having this talk, but knows they can’t do it here, not in the car. They need to be inside the flat. They need to be warm and relaxed and have drinks; Sebastian needs a drink, needs to _relax;_ Jim needs Sebastian to have a drink and relax so that _he_ can relax and have a drink; So he needs to get Sebastian into the flat. 

“Are you coming in?” he asks finally, straight to the point, usually does the trick with the older sniper. 

Sebastian turns his head and meets his gaze. Jim would say it was a questioning look that he was on the receiving end of, but to categorise Sebastian’s stoic face into any type of look was a bit of a stretch of the imagination, really.

“Well?” Jim presses.

“Boss?”

“Come inside”, Jim says and then opens the door and scrambles out of the car. 

He doesn’t wait to see if Sebastian follows him, just walks up to the door confident that he will.

 

_Always the loyal little lap dog_

 

He grunts softly as the detective’s voice taunts him and tries to waft it away from his conscious thought. _Should have asked, should have said_ please _or something, fuck._ He takes a deep breath. _No_ , he tells himself. _Stop it. He’s your second in command, that’s how your relationship works. You command. He gets stuff done._

He senses the other man behind him, even at a safe distance Jim could always _sense_ Sebastian’s presence, and takes a deeper, steadying breath before unlocking the door and walking inside. 

He drops the keys in the crystal bowl on the little side table and zeroes in on the _clank_ of it to distract himself, lets his fingerstips brush against the polished wood of the table top, imagiens every line brush against every one of the lines in his fingerprints… And then Sebastian’s presence is back, like a pulsing, throbbing energy force field lapping against his back… 

”Pour us some drinks”, he says, amazed at the steady coolness of his own voice. 

Sebastian emits a partly bitten off sigh and disappears into the flat. Jim releases a breath he wasn’t aware of holding in and frowns to himself, _Always the loyal little lap dog_ … He scowls. That’s a _good_ thing, he reminds himself. 

He shrugs off his jacket and tosses it onto the nearest surface and stalks after the older man. He finds him standing next to the liquor cabinet, a half-full tumbler in his hand. _One_ tumbler. Jim gives him a sharp look, but gets nothing back. 

”Have a drink with me”, Jim asks, but in all fairness it sounds more like a command. 

”I’m driving”, Sebastian says, and the implication is more than clear. 

Jim feels a sinking feeling, like unease, like disappointment, like he’s fucked up… He crosses his arms and looks down at the hardwood floorboards, traces the lines with his gaze, counts them… It’s not until Sebastian steps closer to him and gently prods his elbow with the tumbler that he realises he’s basically hugging himself. He scowls and flicks the tumbler away. Sebastian sighs again. Jim decides he _hates the sound_ and if the man makes it again he’ll—

“Jim”, Sebastian’s voice cuts through his inner tirade. ”No-one wants to hear they’re ordinary. Makes them feel insignificant.”

“Yeah, I know”, Jim says and rolls his eyes. “It’s very tedious, it’s why I abhor having to get into relationships with ordinary people, it’s just too much work to convince them of the opposite… like Doctor Hooper, oh _God_ that was dull…”

“I’m sure.”

“Oh, _what_? I wasn’t comparing you to Molly Hooper—“

“I should hope not”, Sebastian mutters.

“I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t compare you to anyone. You’re just… I just…”

“What?”

“I just don’t.”

“Not ordinary to you?” Sebastian quotes and Jim immediately tenses up. 

“I’ve told you not to pay attention to his deductions!” he says defensively. “Besides, he only sees what I want him to see, so if he makes a deduction about me, it’s because I want him to make it. Like Jim from IT being gay, or—”

“Yes”, Sebastian interrupts with a sigh. “You’re very clever. You’re both very clever.”

Jim scans the other man’s face intently, reading his tells. Sebastian sighs again and even chuckles a little this time and runs his hands over his face and looks away. Jim frowns; he can’t make sense of it, any of it, _what did I miss?_

“You know, you could just ask me”, Sebastian suggests softly. 

“What?” Jim demands.

“Whatever it is you’re trying to figure out right now. You could just ask me.”

Jim just frowns, and Sebastian chuckles again and shakes his head a little. 

“It’s not a trick, Jimmy, fuck… look, you’re the most intelligent man I’ve ever met, you’re just brilliant, okay? But sometimes you can be so dense…”

Jim scowls.

“ _No-one likes to hear they’re ordinary_ ”, Sebastian repeats and this time he’s looking at Jim as if there’s some significant hidden meaning behind the words that he’s waiting for Jim to get and it’s frustrating because Jim doesn’t get it, _you can be so dense_ , he feels tension coiling in his arms and shoulders and rolls his hands into fists, automatically defensive, but the look in Sebastian’s eyes is open and honest, and it’s disarming enough to keep the shorter man calm. 

“I don’t care about being ordinary or significant, alright?” Sebastian continues. “But I care about being it to you, ordinary or significant. I want to be. I mean, I want to be significant…”

Jim blinks, confused. There’s a hint of a blush in the older man’s face and he’s looking everywhere but at Jim all of a sudden. Jim’s mind is racing. His heart is hammering too, _when did that happen?_

“Well, of course you are”, Jim says with a frown, feeling like he’s _still not getting it_.

Sebastian is eyeing him thoughtfully, and he seems to be reaching the same conclusion. _Jim isn’t getting it_. The shorter man jumps up; frustration is pooling like excess energy in his belly and limbs and chest and he just needs to _get it out of him,_ but he wills himself to _not_ punch anything and starts pacing instead. 

“Jim…” Sebastian says wearily. 

“ _I know_!” Jim snaps. “I’m not getting it, I’m dense, I’m stupid, I’m _socially inept_!”

Sebastian huffs a little, but it’s barely amused, “I don’t think anyone could ever accuse you of being stupid, Jim…”

“Oh you think so!” Jim sneers, but he doesn’t want to get into it, he never wants to get into it, that’s a big no-no, red flag, flashing warning lights, and Sebastian has always been able to tell, and he still can, because he backs off. 

“Just…” the other man sighs. “Come here…”

Jim shoots him a suspicious glance. 

“Just… _Come here._ ” Sebastian repeats, and even beckons with his hand this time, _come here boy, come here boy_ , Jim thinks but pads over to him anyway.


End file.
